Open Your Eyes
by TheVerbalThing ComesAndGoes
Summary: It’s not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU. COMPLETE.
1. Is There a Ghost?

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: don't own it. Sigh. Story title courtesy of Snow Patrol, chapter title belongs to Band of Horses, my new favorite band (of course you care).

A/N: So…me having a little trouble with third chapter of _Lost, Without a Doubt_ + nonstop listen to Band of Horses/Snow Patrol/the Bravery while staring at my blank computer screen equals this.

Enjoy!

* * *

_I could sleep_

_When I lived alone_

_Is there a ghost in my house?_

* * *

You can't sleep.

You want to blame him (_but how can you blame him?_); you feel him here, think of him here (_"What are you doing? This can't be what you want.")_. You imagine him here, telling you all of the things that you've heard him say before but can't seem to get enough of hearing, although you're still not sure why it is that you're thinking of him, tonight, of all nights.

(_God, what a great liar you've become_.)

You'd trained yourself, conditioned yourself to stop thinking of him, to stop using him as your lullaby for sleep. It's wrong and it's strange, especially with Logan lying right here beside you. It's almost as bad as cheating, you think (_although face it, Gilmore, you've done worse_).

_You haven't stopped thinking about that conversation, in the room that should have never been yours, in a house you were never destined to live in, his accomplishment and all the potential you knew he had laying in your lap in the form of your (both his and yours) greatest treasure. _

_(Although, if you're honest, you haven't really stopped thinking about him since the night you met.)_

_In good times and bad, Jess Mariano has never been someone you can just ignore. _

_The decision to see him is decided long before the Costa Rica Stint (you just don't realize—or admit it— until later). His invitation to Truncheon's open house only provides an excuse, and Logan's absence opens the door for opportunity. The address is already ingrained into your memory by the time you leave Connecticut, and you know the directions so well, driving to Philadelphia almost feels like going home. _

_Truncheon is a sight to see (you can't believe he did all this—well, actually you can) and his book is the second thing your eyes settle on. _

_He is the first. (And you can't help but give him a little smile)_

Your fingers, nimble and searching, grip the edge of the blanket pulled up to your chin, a protection as artificial as the arm slung across your waist. It's quiet, all too quiet, and the only sound in your ears is of Logan's breathing, the echo of his every inhale and exhale. His breath tickles the back of your neck and you shiver, but it's more of a physiological thing - cause and effect; your mind is somewhere else. The room isn't cold but he clings to you, an unsettling first, and you make no move to untangle yourself from him.

You figure, you owe him that much.

_It doesn't take long for you to settle back into your old routine of banter and witticisms. It's all too easy, comfortable, getting to know each other again. You (almost) wish that's all this comes down to, just two old friends catching up on old times. _

_But, you know the two of you could never be that simple. _

_He doesn't ask why you came here and you don't offer up any explanations. You only talk about the lighter things, and the "L" word is not one of them. _

_In a bold move, you rest your head on his shoulder. If he is surprised by your forwardness, he hides it well. (Then again, that's always been a talent of his.) _

_He is, tentative, hesitant. "Rory…"_

"_Jess." You love the way he says your name, love the way his fits perfectly on your tongue. (Always have.)_

_You lean forward, knowing but not caring about what closing the space between the two of you could mean: solid proof that you are not the same girl he's used to—at least, not completely. _

_You wonder if he can feel that in your kiss, if he can sense it in the hurried way you pull him towards you, lifting his shirt while trying to unbutton your own. You think he's starting to see the difference—he takes a break from fevered kisses and eager hands to look at you—but you try (so damned hard) not to let him see it but suddenly his lips are gone and you are cold and he's pulling away, putting himself at a safe distance: far away from you. _

_There is a difference, and you know he can't ignore it._

Phantom fingers trail lightly, hesitantly, along your hip. You roll over, eyes closed, thinking of olive skinned hands, assertive but gentle; truthful brown eyes that know you, would never look at you like less than you are; soft, soft hair, a safe haven you've come to know well. A chill runs over you. Eyes open, you are hit with a harsh reality.

_(Wishful thinking.)_

* * *

Ok so, I hope it made sense. I wanted to show that even though Jess is in love with Rory he's not so desperate to be with her when she's clearly not in the best state of mind. At least _I_ think he wouldn't.

Anyways, wrote this on a whim, edited towards the end of a 12 AM coffee buzz, but it has potential. Maybe. I think. Does it? (Hint, hint, nudge, nudge, awkward wink) Review, please.


	2. St Augustine

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: don't own it. Sigh. Story title courtesy of Snow Patrol, credits for chapter title go to once again Band of Horses (seriously, did I tell you how much I love these guys?).

A/N: Writing in italics is past tense; writing in parentheses is Rory's thoughts, kinda. Don't think I mentioned that last chapter and just in case you were confused, figured I'd clear that up.

_

* * *

I know you tried_

_I know you're cursed_

_I know your best was still your worst_

* * *

He doesn't ask you if you want to go, and you don't tell him what the answer would be if he'd bothered.

It's assumed, by the ring on your finger; it's expected, since you said yes, that you would want to be at your own engagement party (_what kind of person would you be if you didn't?_) although, honestly, this party will be just the same as all the others. The only difference is the excuse to get drunk and Logan, obviously, will have to try harder to keep it in his pants because tonight, his obligation and commitment to you actually matters - or at least the appearance of it does.

He smiles at you in the mirror, and you focus more on the reflection than the original. "You ready, Ace?"

You smile back, but you're not looking at him. You're staring at yourself, analyzing the insincerity of your smile: the curve of your lips is just so, too perfect; you're showing just the right amount of teeth—not too many, but not too little. You can't remember how you used to smile, but there is an ache and a longing within you to see that smile again.

"Ace?"

You used to love it when Logan called you "Ace", even got a small thrill out of a nickname picked out just for you, but now you're not so sure.

You smile at him, trying and failing to mask your uncertainty, and to ignore your reflection in the mirror.

"_I don't think you want to do this right now."_

_You shake your head, tell him he's wrong. "Sure I do."_

_In a surprising (and sweet) gesture, he kisses your forehead. "No, you don't."_

You give him credit for ignoring the petite and pretty redhead (daughter of So and So, one of Mitchum's partners), at first. She smiles saucily at him, bold and uncaring (_much like you were_), and he tenses up immediately, holding onto your arm like the life preserver you can't afford to be right now. (_You're barely staying afloat in the shallow end of this society pool_.) You see Logan struggle not to respond, to fight what is in his nature to do.

But, still, you know he's trying. Really, really hard. And you commend his efforts but honestly, there's only so long that he could put up this front and you don't have the energy to fight for his attention, to issue ultimatums just to get him to _finally _put you first.

_(It shouldn't be this hard.)_

You stop to greet guests, thank them for coming to celebrate the awaiting occasion and meanwhile on the sidelines, the Real Logan Huntzberger wins Logan's internal struggle and strikes up a conversation with the redhead, all in the pretense of business. You know they'll be probably occupying a guest room by the end of the night.

It's a losing battle, and so you move on.

_You reach toward him again but Jess pulls away, only slightly (but it's effective) allowing a brief kiss before you leave. You are surprised by his rejection (and your ego takes a beating) but at the same time, you're grateful he had the sense enough to stop when he did. _

_(He knows) you'd only regret it later, and doing that, with him, is not something you would want to regret._

In a blur of unfamiliar faces, you recognize one. Well, two, actually.

You miss her (_like your old smile_). You want so badly just to run up and hug her (_and Luke, even if it does make him squirm_) but things are different between the two of you; she doesn't like Logan—never has—and now you think you're starting to see why but suddenly, overnight (_or over the course of two years_) you've lost the ability to have a conversation with your best friend and, therefore, can't tell her that.

"Hey, guys." Not the most eloquent greeting, but it's a start. "Thanks for coming."

Lorelai smiles (_sympathetically?_) her slightly teary eyes searching yours, for what, you don't know. "Oh, don't thank us. We wouldn't have missed this for anything, kid."

It makes you happy, sad, hopeful, remorseful (_too many things to name_) that, even after you've essentially shunned the life she's worked so hard to provide for you (_is that how she sees it?_), she can still consider you her baby girl, her "kid".

There is hope for you yet, then.

* * *

I know, short, but hopefully quality made up for quantity. Did it? (Do I sound desperate enough for you to review? Please do. Ignore the unintentional rhyming.)


	3. This Is Your Life

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: don't own it. Sigh. Story title courtesy of Snow Patrol, credits for chapter title go to Switchfoot.

A/N: I really meant to post this earlier (like a month ago earlier) but school and homework and general life stuff just got in the way. …but enough with the crappy excuses (I'm sure that's not what you came here to read) and on with the story. As always, enjoy!

(and drop a review, let me know what you think, hate, like, love, etc.)

Anyway, as I was saying, read on, folks. Read on.

_

* * *

Don't close your eyes..._

_This is your life, are you who you want to be? _

_This is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be_

_When the world was younger and you had everything to lose?_

* * *

You are suddenly overcome with the need to test something within yourself. And, for once, you don't ignore this need.

You cross the floor, not allowing this moment to pass up because of the hoards of people you don't know wanting to wish you forced and falsified congratulations. (_Or, more accurately, a proper 'best wishes'_.)

You find a chair in the corner, separating yourself from the band of drunken idiots (_your fiancé included_) but you try not to be too obvious about what it is that you're doing.

Subtlety is an art that you've mastered in the frequent presence of a piss-drunk Logan.

Here, in your corner, you observe the crowd that you've merely been dipping your toe in (_really nothing short of a trial run_) but in a few short weeks your presence here will be permanently cemented by a simple "I do".

(_Do you?_)

Two short words, hardly even a sentence really, but you can't believe by the simple utterance of them how signed and sealed your fate seems to be.

You curl your feet up beneath you, an old instinct from years ago you thought you have long forgotten. There's a book in your lap—it's no _Oliver Twist_ or _The Subsect _but still eager fingers thumb their way between the pages. It's been so long (_too long_) since your eyes have been graced with the presence of anything beyond guest lists and wine choices, but you need to try this, to test something.

This is the part of yourself you've been avoiding and neglecting, for some reason that's perched just at the back of your mind but not yet ready for you to name or confront.

You feel a strange sense of comfort that you have been without these past few years. It is strange because you've gotten so accustomed (_possibly grown dependent?_) to being something different—trying to be something different because you thought it would please him, thought molding yourself into this life would make everything better, easier.

You've given up many things to be with him, you realize as you hold onto that book and watch Logan stumble a little (_and God, you're grateful Lorelai has left already_) holding onto the redhead for support. And she giggles, leaning into his hand.

Holding onto that book as tightly as you are hurts a little, but so does the small, burgeoning thought that what you've gotten in return is not at all worth what you've given up.

_Jess calls within a few days— just to check up on you (he says) and, honestly, there is only a small part of you that's completely surprised. He's changed, you know that— you can't _get over _that. But still, you were hoping he'd make this easy and just go away._

_(But when has he ever done that?)_

_You want to hate him for having his shit together, while you just keep falling apart, not ready (or just unwilling) to admit the reason behind that, but you're more proud of him than anything else. Besides, you don't honestly think having Jess Mariano out of your life would make things better for you. _

"_So, how are you?" He's actually sincere, not just biding time with meaningless questions._

"_Miserable," is what you want to say. A half-convincing "Never better" manages to tumble its way out of your mouth._

"_Still with him?" You give him credit for having the guts to ask._

"_Sure, why not?" Your tone is biting, acidic, but you can't help yourself. _

"_Maybe because you didn't seem too _committed_ the last time we spoke."_

"_Wow, Jess is all grown up, uses big boy words now." You would tell yourself to stop, but your lips seem to have a mind of their own._

_He's quiet for a moment, surprised you guess (or maybe not). And then, he flips the switch:_

"_I just want you to be happy, Rory, that's it. You just—you don't seem happy."_

_And that is what chokes you up, more than anything else. You can't remember if he's ever expressed this sentiment to you before and you can't help but feel…too much. _

"_What makes you think that I'm no'—?" For some reason the words won't come, you feel them stick and lodge their way into your throat. You've put up a good front but there's no way you can make it through the rest of the conversation after that._

_You delicately place the phone on its receiver and rest your face in your hands._

You feel more comfortable snuggling up to the door rather than with him—you're not exactly angry you don't think, but you need space to think, and honestly, you'd rather not smell like the redhead, too. Her perfume was cheap.

You lean against the window, the engagement ring shoving itself into your palm. It only stings a little (_just enough to keep your mind awake_) so you remain in that position.

"Ace?" His voice is remorseful, his hand gentle (_not grabby like usual_)on your thigh. Lately you've been thinking he must see you as stupid, or at the very least naïve enough to believe his lies, gullible enough to blindly follow through his deceits. But maybe he knows that you can see through it (_you just don't have the strength to admit it_).

It's the look on Logan's face, regretful, sweet, and openly apologetic, that makes forgiving him easy, makes being weak easy. Too easy. Since when have you been the one who craves ease? Since when have you been the one so afraid of a possibly difficult life you preferred to be stagnant?

He kisses you hastily, almost as if he knows what you're thinking. He's looks so close to admitting his guilt—although what exactly he's guilty of you're not completely sure, but the experience he's given you about his post-infidelity behavior can fill in the blanks.

"I _love_ you, you know that?"

(_All too much._)

"Logan…" You gently grab his hand and use your own to guide it away from your thigh. The look in his eyes is defeated and you remember the insistence you used to feel to want to make that go away. The feeling isn't as great as it used to be.

You pat the side of his face and at the gesture he bows his head, though he still allows you to clasp his hand. There is something you want to say to him, but you're not sure what, not sure _when_. (_It's a feeling akin to spending hours on a problem, where you sense yourself on the edge of realization but haven't yet got enough sense to cross over that line._)

The only thing you are certain of is the irony of this night: the purpose was to be an unofficial welcoming into the world of being a Huntzberger wife, but it's only made you wary of it.

You look at Logan through half open eyes, your grip on his hand loose and fading while his is tight and unrelenting.

There is a part of you that can't help but feel a little sorry fir him, but you're so close to stepping over the line of realization, that the rest of you doesn't really care.


	4. Believe

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: don't own it. Sigh. Story title courtesy of Snow Patrol, credits for chapter title go to the wonderful, the lovely, the Bravery

A/N: Goofy me just now realized that I actually got reviews for this story so just wanted to say thanks for that…I was actually surprised since I wasn't too sure about this one but thanks… I meant to have this chapter up a while ago but it just didn't feel right so I had to keep fixing it so I hope it works.

On with the show.

_

* * *

I am hiding from some beast,_

_But the beast was always here _

_Watching without eyes _

_Because the beast is just my fear_

_That I am just nothing_

_Now its just what I've become_

_What am I waiting for? _

_It's already done._

* * *

Tonight is supposed to be, technically, your last night of freedom.

Tonight is the night you're supposed to be hit with the realization that you and Logan are either destined to be together or you want nothing more to do with him. Tonight is the night you're supposed to decide for good, what direction you want your life to go in.

Unfortunately, in spite of your convictions the night before, you haven't completely resigned yourself to _acting_ on those thoughts.

Maybe tonight isn't the night.

You _think_ you know what needs to be done but actually _doing_ it is a whole other matter. It's going to take you a little bit longer to dig up some of that courage and Gilmore Resolve you've lost.

Tonight, you're supposed to be at your bachelorette party—but you politely declined Honor's insistence that you leave singledom "with a bang".

You figure you need all the time you can get to make up and overanalyze the trusty pro-con list you've compiled in your mind.

Unfortunately, you can't seem to tear yourself away from staring at the phone and the only thing on your mind right now is calling him.

(_Pathetic._)

"…_You've reached me. You know what to do."_

Pause. Deep breath. You give yourself a moment (_just in case_) to hang up.

"Hi, it's—Rory…You're probably sick of hearing from me by now…I'm not even sure why I called, really, I'm actually supposed to be at my bachelorette party but I just—I feel like I owe you an apology for…so many things lately. But you're not home and God, how piteous would I be to apologize to you over your answering machine? I guess this could be considered the start of said apology…and, uh, I'm gonna hang up now."

The sigh that escapes you is heavy and loaded. Now's as good a time as any for a bath, bubbles included. (_Calgon, do your thing._)

You raise your chin above the water, ready to dunk your head under, and then the phone rings. You answer, expectantly, and blurt out, stupidly, "Jess?"

"What? Ace—Rory?"

You vaguely remember a time a few months ago, saying how much you wish he would say your name more. You find it strange that he chooses this moment to act on that request.

"Logan…what are you doing?"

"What, can't I call you? I miss you." His words are slurred. (_Shocker._) "I just wanted to talk to you, Rory. Babe—"

"Logan—" The phone beeps, interrupting (_this so very important conversation_), and you don't hesitate to click over. "Hello?"

"And the Infamous Message Rambler strikes again." A breath is released that you didn't realize you've been holding. This is not the reaction you were expecting (_oh, the pessimist you've become_) but, god, are you glad it's the one you've been given.

"Hi."

"So, uh, was there something you wanted to say?" There is a hint of hesitation to his voice, though you don't blame him. (_You wouldn't have the right, really, not anymore._)

You lean your head back. Eyes closed, you let the water flow between your open fingers. "I'm supposed to be at my bachelorette party right now."

"I guess you're not up to the whole ritual of sticking dollar bills down Chocolate Thunder's G-String? It's your rite of passage." His tone is neutral, flat; you're not sure how to take it—then again you're not sure why you brought up the bachelorette thing anyway. Six feet under must be your favorite place to be.

"Not sure if I'm even up to the whole ritual of walking down the aisle," you mumble.

He's quiet. You don't know if he didn't hear you or is pretending not to. "Rory…" He sighs. Hard. "What am I supposed to say to that?"

"What do you think? The pro-con list doesn't seem to be working lately."

"Jesus, Rory…This isn't about me or him. This is about you. What do _you_ want?"

"I want…" You tilt your head towards the ceiling, letting the tip of your chin touch the surface of the cold, cool water. Breathe in deep, but still nothing feels solved. Not yet, at least. (_But, god, almost._)

"I just wanted to say sorry. Okay? I'm sorry, for before."

You hang up before he can respond. Almost instantaneously, the phone rings.

Shit. You forgot about Logan.

"Rory, what's going on?"

"Nothing, Logan, you're just drunk and—"

"I'm not—I'm not _drunk_, Rory. Are you still—are you still angry with me? God, Rory, I thought we were past this. I thought that you've forgiven me for, for what happened. I mean, you've always forgiven before, haven't you? I thought—"

You have absolutely no idea what he's talking about, but you don't have the energy to ask nor do you care enough to try to absolve his guilt.

"Logan, just go back and enjoy your bachelor party." You hang up the phone, not giving him a chance to respond.

You close your eyes; take a breath, and hideaway beneath the water. It's a fruitless wish, but you're hoping that maybe, just maybe, by the time you resurface things will be different, things will feel solved.


	5. Tick, Tick Boom

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: don't own it. Sigh. Story title belongs to Snow Patrol; chapter title creds go to the Hives. Only the story idea (and Andréa Nixon) is mine.

_

* * *

I got my eye on the score_

_I'm gonna cut to the core_

_It's too late; it's too soon, or is it?_

_Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, boom_

_Check it: and you come crying to me - but it's too late_

_The man you try hard to be - but it's too late_

_Get your head out the sand- but it's too late_

_It's too late, too late, too late, too late_

* * *

Today is the day of the wedding of the century.

It is a feat in of itself, they've told you, bagging down the forever single and longtime playboy that is Logan Huntzberger. You haven't told them how the playboy thing is very much still apart of his character—you're just the one he acknowledges in public. Most of them, you're sure, are card carrying members of Logan's harem. But, this fact doesn't bother you as much as it should. (_Doesn't bother you at all, in fact.)_

Now they're telling you how gorgeous you are, how white is a color made just for you. A modern day Daisy Buchanan, they say. You hold the tip of your tongue between your teeth, to keep yourself from mentioning how miserably that story ended. (_Are they really that stupid?_) You try to make it seem as though you're at least half involved in what's going on around you, but nothing seems to fit, nothing is connecting about this moment.

It doesn't feel as it should. This is _your wedding day_ and you feel as though it's just another Tuesday.

"_What's going on with you? This isn't you Rory, what you're doing."_

"_I don't know," you say (but you have an idea). "I don't know."_

A clumsy bridesmaid knocks your shoulder into the bureau, almost knocking over a vase and they all fuss, one woman in particular. The woman is Andréa Nixon, a brunette with streaks of auburn, and she frowns just slightly when the vase of fresh lilacs tips too closely towards your lap. "Is everything in place? Where is the maid of honor?"

"She's coming," someone off to your left answers. (_You realize, then, that save for the actual ceremonial reciting of vows you aren't actually needed._)

It would have been Lane, but it's been a while since you've spoken to her. (_And, in all honesty, you wouldn't want Lane to see you this way._) So, in a spur of being uncreative, you've bestowed that privilege upon Honor herself.

"I said for the ice sculpture to go in the _main hall _not the entrance way. How would putting it in the entrance way make it a focal point? People _walk through _the entrance way to _get _to the main hall. Just think about how much—"

Andréa Nixon is the best wedding planner in all of Hartford. To her, executing this wedding successfully equals a lifetime of recognition and status, an increase in business for her current employer and possibly a future for an event planning business of her own. She is ambitious and driven, albeit a little controlling. She reminds you (_just a little_) of how you used to be, mixed in with a little bit of Paris Gellar. (_Though her smile leaves little to be desired._)

Really, there's only one thing your mind is completely focused on: _You've always forgiven me, _he said. There have been a lot of "always", you think, so that can't possibly be true. (_But, god, _look_ at you!_)

The gaggle of (_non_) friends and bridesmaids giggle themselves to death (_you wish they weren't so selfish with the liquor_) and two of them manage to throw their arms around you. "Photo-op!" they scream. "Look at us! The perfect Kodak moment. You'll want to remember this for_ever _Rory, I swear to God!"

One of them pulls out a camera, turns your face towards the vanity mirror facing the rest of them. You are all dolled up (_though you barely remember when, exactly, that happened_). In spite of the fact this is supposed to be "your day," you feel like one of them. You _look _like one of them.

"_This isn't about me or him. This is about _you_. What do _you_ want?"_

You couldn't answer him then (_like a coward you simply hung up the phone_) but now you're getting the picture.

Do you really want to live out the rest of your life, here, with these people?

You lean closer towards the mirror, squinting. You feel like screaming.

The camera goes off with a flash, purple dots swimming before your eyes, high pitched giggles of drunk, ditzy bridesmaids attacking your ears.

The answer you believe, is, decidedly, a resounding _no_.

What happens next occurs too fast for your mind to catch up. First, you're standing upright, one of the bridesmaids complaining about an elbow in her eye, then suddenly you've left them and Andréa behind, and _blink _here you are in this small, cramped, hot, stale and dark room, your back against the wall, completely out of breath. You don't remember running but you guess that's why your feet hurt and the bottom of your dress is torn a little.

Andréa would kill you three times over but, you figure, it's worth it.

You are staring down the barrel of your freedom.

There. No. Not there. _There. _Right through that little window, which is mostly for ventilation purposes but you're tiny, you can fit. If you could just slide your leg right on through—

"Rory?"

And you're stuck. Thankfully, though, you've gotten enough of your senses back to lock the door.

"You in there?"

You don't even want to answer that obviously dumb question, but you'd rather they not be suspicious and try to pick the lock. Buy yourself some time. "Yes. I'm okay!"

You shift a little, try to gain leverage. The heels are going to have to go.

"You sure?"

You lift your leg up about a foot or so, your dress becomes unstuck from the nail in the window and your foot connects with pavement. "I'm sure!" you call back over your shoulder. You don't pause to see if she hears you.

It's taken you this long to finally decide, you're not stopping for anything.


	6. What I'm Looking For

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: Don't own it. (At all.) Sigh. Without Snow Patrol there'd be no title to this story; without Brendan Benson you'd all be sittin pretty with no chapter title.

A/N: …Guess it's been a while. Sorry about that, just couldn't get inspired. But to those who did actually review thanks…because otherwise I probably would have given up on it. Anyway after a month of silence, here you go...

* * *

_And I act like a child and I'm insecure  
And I'm filled with doubt and I'm immature  
Sometimes it creeps up on me and before I know it _

_I'm lost at sea  
But no matter how far I roam  
I always find my way back home  
But I don't know what I've been waiting for  
But I know that I don't wanna wait anymore_

_

* * *

_

_(You think) you know by the way Logan holds your hand that something is different. It's comfortable. Not loose and flimsy, like he's eager to let you fall or float away; he isn't gripping your hand so tightly that you can feel the bones in your hand crushing together, so tightly that you can feel his fear what might happen if he lets you go. This time, it's comfortable._

_When he gets down on bended knee in the middle of the living room floor. You're more surprised he doesn't do this over a candlelit dinner, in a restaurant full of people, waiting for the moment as if it's been rehearsed just for them. If there's one thing he likes, it's a show. _

_But you're grateful to have this moment, this moment that would stay between just the two of you. You're thinking, in this moment, that you could be happy. You're telling yourself to ignore the part of you that's screaming that this isn't going to work, the part of you doubting him because you love him and you can't help it, because he proposed to you here, just the two of you. _

_"Marry me?" he asks, a rare humbleness lighting his eyes. _

_You bite your lip as you say, quietly, "Yes." (What else could you say?)_

_And then he pulls you toward him, as you admire the newly placed ring on your finger and tell that voice to shut up. And then he says, "I've got us reservations for later." _

_You hold onto the ring because you want it to mean something, because you want to ignore the way his grip is slipping as he pulls you out of the apartment, because you want to forget how his gaze became a little unfocused once you said yes, because you want this to work for all the reasons that it won't. _

It all becomes easier once you shove your way through the bushes that curl around the lower portion of the church.

You stumble once or twice, maybe three times. (_But, really, who's counting?_) Your ankle twists as your feet trip over the cobbled walkway leading up to the church that you're leaving behind. You accidentally bite down on your tongue in the process, but still, you keep going.

There is somewhere you have to be. The "where" of that equation has yet to be determined but the more distance there is between you and that church (_and those people_) the better off you will be, the better you will be able to see yourself without them. The rose colored glasses crack with every step you take and you are a better person for it.

You guess this is what it feels like to be on auto pilot. Your mind is clear, precise, unclouded for the first time in a long time; really the only thing you're aware of is the feel of the pavement beneath your bare feet and the wound of the wind whipping past your ears. The only coherent, distinctive thought running like a hypnotic loop through your mind is run_. _(_You have no reason to stop; you have nothing to look back for._)

It is only when a rock scrapes against the bottom of your foot, and you actually feel the pain of it cutting into your skin, when you stop to realize just what the hell you're doing. Running through the streets of Hartford, barefoot and penniless—except for, ironically, the string of pearls around your neck and the tiara clinging pitifully to the top of your head. The tiara is Emily's, so happy to step in for Lorelai during your rift who would be mortified to see you (_while Lorelai would have an endless amount of Maggie Carpenter jokes on hand_).

You stop at a crosswalk, and lean against a street sign. Curb Your Dog, it says.

Really, you should have thought this through more. You sit on bench, next to a pay phone to inspect your feet. They're fine; the cut on the left barely even qualifies.

You lean back, and let the bottom of your dress (_no longer pure and _true) cover your feet. It's then that you notice how quiet and empty the streets are how no one has stopped to question you running for your life in your wedding dress with its fraying edges how you haven't been pulled to the side to ask if you are alright.

The streets are basically deserted. This is Hartford. And anyone who's anyone in Hartford would be at that wedding. You can't help but glance at the engagement ring on your finger. (_Technically, your wedding._)

You tip back your head and stare at the sky, the different shades and hues of blue; you raise your hand to your face to shield your eyes from the sun. And then you think: where the hell do you go from here?

_The bathroom door of the restaurant swings open and shut, filling your ears and head with music and cheers, the sounds of another round of shots being passed around but you are focused, all on your own. (Well, with the help of three shots of tequila.) _

_You're laying on the floor of the bathroom in spite of the fact that there's a suede –or velvet—couch right next to you, your dress riding up above your knees, cell phone in hand, life line like there never was one. Your thumb pauses between two names of equal importance, you figure. Both slighted and ignored in ways by you that they didn't deserve. You hover over one and, hastily, decide to hit the other. You don't remember deciding to do it, actually but it's happening. _

_The phone rings once, twice, before you hear an answer. You don't expect her to recognize the number. "Hello?"_

"_Hi," you say but your voice is garbled and disjointed, like it's been tossed around inside the washing machine a few times. (But you're willing to bet that's just the drink, "celebratory tequila" as Logan calls it.) _

"_Rory." Her voice is quiet (the quietest she's ever been, probably ever will be) and for that, you think you're overcompensating. You sit up, rub at the ring weighing heftily on your finger._

"_I just wanted to tell you you were wrong, you know? He's not bad. He's just different. He makes me feel a little different. And who doesn't like different? There's nothing wrong with different." You realize your voice is getting louder, you realize you're sounding more and more defensive. You realize you're twisting the ring so hard it's turning your finger red but you don't really feel the pain that you're supposed to._

_Lorelai's voice is raised, to match your own. "What are you talking about, Rory? I never said he was bad. Bad for _you_, obviously—"_

"_What do you mean, 'obviously'?"_

"_Rory…you and Logan just weren't right for each other still aren't and I'm sorry but all he does is pull you down but you keep on letting him! Why you keep letting him I have no idea."_

"_He's good to me. He loves me. You don't know what you're talking about."_

"_Where is this coming from? You don't talk to me for months and then you call me just to say this?" She sounds heartbroken, your mother, and you want to lay your head back down on the floor for the simple fact that you're the reasoning behind it._

"_Just wanted to tell you that you were wrong is all."_

"_Well, there you go."_

_It takes you maybe fifteen seconds total to realize that the sound in your ears is the dial tone. _

Bus, cab, or subway?

Sad that, on your wedding day, this is the most important decision you'll have to make. The sun beams down on your forehead, making it that much harder for you to decide. You're not that far from the church—maybe a few blocks, a couple turns here and there. You need to move.

You stand and a part of you wants to toss the tiara to the side, throw the pearls in the gutter, but the majority speaks up and reasons that you can always return them afterward and besides the string of pearls were a wedding present from Logan's mother. Family heirloom, actually. (_Guess they figured it was all a sure thing_.)

(_From the start, you've had your doubts; it's just taken you longer than it should have for you to listen to them._)

You find a small coffee shop two streets down from the Curb Your Dog sign. It's open surprisingly and the guy behind the counter isn't that much younger than you are. Somehow you work on a smile, try to ignore the fact that your dress is falling to pieces. "Hi. I was wondering if you have any bus schedules or numbers for a cab company or something?" The words rush out, hurried, with almost no distinction between them and your voice is shaky.

His eyes flick over you, starting from head to toe and stopping at your feet. You wonder if he reads Hartford's Society pages, if he knows who you are and what you've just walked out on - correction: ran away from. "You're not wearing any shoes."

(_Thank you. As if the blisters weren't any indication._) "I need to be somewhere," you say.

"No shoes, no service."

"I don't need service. I'm good without service. I just need a phone book or a bus schedule, anything that can help me get the hell out of this town."

"You need to _be _somewhere or you just _left_ somewhere?" he snorts, gesturing to the bottom of your dress. For some reason in that moment, he reminds you of Jess and for a second, tears prick your eyes. But you blink them back, search deep into the dregs into your memory for that Gilmore resolve that you're trying to regain.

"You don't understand. I have to get out of here, okay? It's not something that I can just go back to." You're saying more than you want but the expression in his eyes is more sympathetic than you would have expected and, instead of a phone book, he hands over a sheet of paper, pulls a pen from his pocket and writes down a number.

"Cab company," he mumbles.

The paper has barely made it from his hand to yours before you're out the door, tossing a thank you over your shoulder, running back those two streets to the pay phone you left behind. You dial the number and wait. Twenty minutes, they say.

You tuck your feet beneath you (_wish there was a book to read_). If you squint and tilt your head, you just see the steeple of the church. They must have kicked the door down by now, must have figured out you finally regained your senses and crawled out of the rabbit hole. You wonder if they've told Lorelai, wonder if she's aiding the search or watching them scramble with a smirk on her face (_probably the latter_). She is a wrong you will have to right later (_but you're not going back there_).

In twenty minutes, you're leaving. You have twenty minutes to prepare yourself for whatever it is that you need to say (_still don't know what that is exactly_) without screwing it up by not saying what you mean, or meaning what you say. You have twenty minutes before you start to close the book on your life as Rory Gilmore the Socialite.

Twenty minutes.


	7. Drive

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: _Open Your Eyes_ belongs to Snow Patrol. _Drive_, as far as I know, is the work of Incubus (and a pretty great song in my opinion). The characters aren't mine, but it's nice to pretend.

A/N: So, it's been forever, I know. Longer than I intended but on the plus side, I think this baby is nearing its end. Maybe. Then again, maybe not. It won't be much longer at least. Possibly. Ok, forget I said that and just read the damn thing. :)

And, as always, review. (I'll throw a please in there so I don't seem so demanding)

* * *

_Sometimes, I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear  
And I can't help but ask myself how much I let the fear  
Take the wheel and steer  
It's driven me before  
And it seems to have a vague, haunting mass appeal  
But lately I'm beginning to find that I  
Should be the one behind the wheel_

_So if I decide to waiver my chance to be one of the hive  
Will I choose water over wine and hold my own and drive?_

_

* * *

_

"Where ya headed?"

For just a moment, the question catches you off guard; you stare back at the man who asked, dazed, confused and a little disoriented.

You figure, it probably has something to do with the fact that you have no idea what the answer is. So far, where you're going hasn't been an important motivating factor—it's been more about what you're getting away from.

You figure, that's probably a big part of the problem.

The backseat of the cab is littered with trash, an empty coffee cup here, a Snickers wrapper there (you rest your hand against the seat, your palm narrowly avoiding nugget and marshmallow). It is a cornucopia of the discarded and unwanted remnants of life. You wonder, for a brief philosophical moment, what that makes you.

There is a place, a thought at the back of your mind hinting at where you would like to go, but a moment of hesitancy (_and fear_) keep you from saying it out loud, immediately. You're not sure, exactly, if where you want to be is a place where you would be welcome.

"Miss?" the tone of the cabdriver's voice is misleading, his voice patient and waiting while the expression on his face could not more clearly say "hurry the hell up" unless he utters the words himself.

You sigh, and resign yourself to simple fact that this is one of those "now or never" moments. (_And never is not really an option- at least not for you._)

As you tell the driver your ideal destination, the look on his face transitions from disgruntled to skeptical, to sympathetic— all within the span of about three seconds. (_The sympathy, you're assuming goes toward the lack of shoes on your feet, the hopeful look in your eyes, and the pitiable state of your dress._)

Still, you imagine he's tallying up the price of a ride like that just before he sighs a final and reluctant, "Get in."

You would hug him, but there's a bulletproof window between the driver and passenger's seats (_which makes you more than eager to keep your distance.)_ Besides, you're not sure either one of you smells all that great right about now.

The cabdriver looks over his shoulder and the smile you give him is nothing short of grateful. "Thank you so much." He shrugs, like it's nothing. You figure, he has no idea what he's doing for you.

As the taxi creeps forward, you rest your head against the window, glancing back only once just to solidify the feeling that you are actually doing this, that this is what you prefer.

This is what you choose.

_Several days after he proposes, you feel yourself begin to splinter. You are a spider-web of broken glass—the more steps you take (or the more steps someone takes on you) the further you splinter and crack (but you are not really given the option of breaking completely)._

"—_flowers?"_

_The floral delivery girl (her name tag reads Cheryl) is considerate enough to come to you personally, naïve enough to believe that you actually have any say in what's going on here. You guess, somehow still you have an air of importance about you. (Though you're not sure, exactly, how that is.)_

"_Over here."_

_You step to the side after being jostled, only slightly, by the delivery men. You watch, disconnected, as your life is rearranged around you (without your say, as if you're not even there) the steps to your future being meticulously checked off on a to-do list._

_"You're sure these are the flowers you want?" Cheryl asks, searching for you to be the one to make a decision. You take a deep breath but just as you open your mouth, __Andréa comes over, an air of purpose surrounding her.  
_

_"You don't have anything else in mind, do you?" There is something about her tone-the assuming, all knowing pitch in her voice- that puts you a little on edge (as if you aren't already there of your own accord)._

_You look down for a brief moment, and swear that you can hear the sound of glass cracking. "No, not really."_

"_Of course not. They're perfect, aren't they?" Andréa, the wedding planner, doesn't wait for a response. You realize you could have prattled out a curse in German and it wouldn't have mattered. In spite of all the pretenses, you are being painfully made aware that this isn't about what you want._

_She moves onto the next item on the checklist and you are left behind with Eduard, the glorified handyman whose only purpose is to do the heavy lifting, and wish that "this" would be over sooner, rather than later._

It's raining.

You close your eyes, press your nose and forehead against the cool pane of the window and sigh. Your lips, you see reflected in the glass, are turned up in just the slightest hint of a smile. The rain started up almost as soon as you entered Philadelphia, a fact that you find, in some respect, gloriously liberating.

_It's cold out when you step outside, and you've forgotten your jacket. You'd only intended on getting some fresh air; coming out here was not meant to be a prolonged experience. _

_You wrap your arms—bare, riddled with goose bumps, and shivering—around yourself and sigh. A lot of things are not as you intended._

_You blink, the sharp air whipping your hair into your face and eyes. Suddenly you're sitting in your car behind the wheel, keys in the ignition and then, just as suddenly, you are leaving behind pre-wedding floral arrangements and practice table settings in a cloud of car exhaust and screeching tires._

_Your body seems to be aware of wherever it is that you're headed towards, even if your mind doesn't have a clue. You are driving on auto-pilot, going off of faith and instinct (and you're thankful for that)._

_Time seems to slip through your fingers; before long, you find yourself in more than familiar territory, the ache to belong, to feel _home_, wrapping itself tightly around you as you pull to a stop in front of the sign that has eased many a fears. "Welcome to Stars Hollow."_

_You blink back tears you didn't realize you were holding as eager fingers create their own path along the engraved lettering, you feel your body heave another sigh as you realize: you miss it. You miss _here_._

_And it hurts to miss this much._

You were expecting him to be here. You were expecting a torrent of questions, an argument, the always present question (_"What are you doing here?"_) that seems to serve as a soundtrack for your relationship. You were expecting him to hate you for coming here. For all of that, you were prepared.

But not for this.

"I—"

Before you are entirely aware of what you're doing, before either of you can say a word or any coherent phrase, you are moving towards him (_or he's moving toward you, really it's hard to tell the difference_) and you're in his arms.

It feels better than you've remembered; the ease of which you fit into his arms feels slightly comparable to being home.


	8. Make Damn Sure

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him… Your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Disclaimer: chapter title goes to my all time favorite band, Taking Back Sunday.

A/N: My muse fuse is short, so enjoy it while it burns. (why does that sound dirty?)

Anyways, I'm almost certain about there being roughly 2-3 chapters left of this story, in case you were wondering. And, if you weren't well, consider it a 2 weeks notice of sorts. I'm pretty happy with this chapter and I hope you are too.

_

* * *

A long night spent with your most obvious weakness  
You start shaking at the thought you are everything I want  
'Cause you are everything I'm not_

_And we lay we lay together just not  
Too close, too close (How close is close enough?)  
We lay, we lay together just not  
Too close, too close_

* * *

The hug, the embrace, the whatever— you're not sure how exactly you would define it but you are clinging to him and he is holding you so tight that it's a little hard to breathe, but you don't dare to let go.

Your chin rests perfectly in the curve between his neck and his shoulder and you close your eyes for just a moment. Your lips press against his cheek as though that is where they belong (_his have taken their rightful spot just underneath your __jaw_). It feels good, you think. Molding yourself to fit his shape is effortless.

Then, just as suddenly as his arms were around you, he is pulling away and the moment is over— all too quickly for your liking.

He rests his hands on top of your shoulders but doesn't look at you. You know, by the way his fingers grip your skin, he is thinking hard about what it is that he wants to say to you.

"Why are you here?" His tone is quiet, but not accusing, which gives you the slightest sense of hope.

"I don't—" You shake your head, unable to articulate the reason, but unwilling to let your mouth form the words "I don't know" because that would be a lie and you didn't come here to lie to him.

"Why did you come here? To _me_?"

You are struck by an overwhelming and almost strangling sensation of déjà vu and familiarity. You close your eyes for a moment, and try to ignore it. Honesty, you figure, would be your best bet for now but you have never found it more difficult to tell the truth as you do right now.

"I wanted—I _needed_ to see you. To figure out…things." It is the best truth you can give and you hope that, at least for now, it is enough. "It feels right…feels like I should be here."

"Okay," he says slowly. "Okay."

_You like Logan better when he's sleeping. _

_It sounds terrible, makes you feel just as bad for thinking it but still you can't deny that it's a fact. Here, in this bed, lying next to you, he almost transforms into a completely different person—peaceful, calm and someone you can try to learn to live with._

_Here, he is not worried about using money in the hopes that he can buy everyone's affections, that everyone will like him as long as he is the life of the party and forget his flaws. Everything is better when he's sleeping—when you don't have to try so hard to make the effort to just be with him and around him (because, God, you're so tired of trying)._

_You rest your hand gently along his cheek, just barely touching his skin, and he moves toward it. You smile softly, but truthfully the action only makes you sadder. You wish that he wouldn't try so hard. You wish that you could try harder. You wish things were different._

_You wish a lot of things. _

_You slip your hand from his cheek and rest it back against your side. After a minute or two, he rolls away from you. You sigh; regrettably, at the fact that now you can breathe a lot easier. _

_It is not that you never cared about him. (You always will, you don't think that any amount of time that passes will change that.) The simple fact of the matter is that your heart is being pulled somewhere else. To some_one _else. It always has been._

_And you can't ignore that. _

"Here."

He hands you a towel but it slips through your fingers, and lands unceremoniously on your lap. It's starch white and soft, plush beyond belief; its cleanliness surprises you, but all you have to compare it with is Jess' half of Luke's old apartment. "Bathroom's the third door on the left."

You squeak out a small, "Thank you," before he walks away to a room you don't recognize at the end of the hall.

He hasn't said much of anything since you came here, nothing since the unexpected hug, of sorts (_you're not sure, exactly, what else to call it_) hasn't looked at you since you pulled away and were seconds away from kissing him. (_You think; you will never really know for sure now._)

In spite of that (_or because of it_), you assure yourself that here is where you need to be. Where you _want _to be.

The water in the shower goes from freezing cold to scalding hot (_there is no happy medium here_), and you choose the latter. You close your eyes as you soothe the soap over your skin, reveling in the scent that makes you think of him, makes you miss being in his arms.

You know he's going to want more of an explanation, more of a reason other than "it feels right" as to why you're here with him, why his place, his arms, his bed, was the first destination that sprang to mind when the cabdriver asked where it was that you wanted to go. That you don't want to go anywhere else.

And you know, that now you are ready to tell him.

_You can't figure out what it is that you want from him. You're pushing, pulling, kissing, shoving. You can't decide if you want him near you or as far away as possible. You are a contradiction of wants and needs and you know he is bewildered._

_You're hoping it will all be easier if you replace the feel and longing, the taste of Jess with the fleeting and superficial security that you know Logan can give you. You want it to work. (You need it to work.) _

"_Whoa, Ace, slow down. Man, if I'd have known all I had to do to get you like this was to fall out of a plane…"_

"_Logan—" You shake your head, surprised and a little irritated at the fact that you're blinking back tears. This isn't working. This _isn't working.

_You push him away, to a safer distance—arms length—where you aren't consumed by overwhelming suffocation. You want to attribute it to the alcohol you shouldn't have had but you know it's so much more than that._

"_I'm sorry." The words tumble out of your mouth in a rush, your tongue tripping over your teeth, vowels, and consonants._

"_For what?" He sighs, and you're thankful that tonight, he is in a patient mood._

_This isn't working, you think, but you can't seem to get the words out so instead, you swallow them back and resolve to say them some other time, some other way, but not like this._

Wordlessly, he tosses you a pair of sweatpants and the infamous Butt-with-Hands-Flipping-the-Bird t-shirt. "It's the only clean one. Caught me on laundry day."

"Thanks. It's okay—I like it."

"Well, if I'd have known that…" He smirks.

The sweatpants fall just below your hips, there's a small rip at the knee, and you have to roll the bottoms up twice just so you don't trip over them. You stand awkwardly in the doorway to his room, the weather-beaten and now ragtag wedding gown balled up between your hands.

Jess's eyes are slightly glazed over, the meaning indefinable. "What are you going to do with that?"

"Burn it?" You're hoping to lighten the mood, ease out the tension that you wish didn't exist.

He smiles.


	9. The General Specific

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him… Your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Disclaimer: "The General Specific" belongs to Band of Horses. (or just Horses, depending on the year, I guess.)

A/N: So, this is it! I believe this story has reached its end and sorry it took forever to finish, but I hope you like. Thanks to all who read and reviewed. (And those who added this story to their favorites.)

_

* * *

Knowing up here,_

_There comes a fork in the road_

_Pants have gotta go, we're on an island on the fourth of July_

_Looks like the tide is going home  
In time I'd find a little way to your heart,_

_Down to the general store for nothing specific._

* * *

Later that night, he tells you that you can have the bed. "I'll take the couch."

You protest for a good fifteen minutes, feeling uneasy about taking up space in his life when, technically, you shouldn't even be here. (_But you're more than grateful that you are._) Eventually, you concede, but only because he insists so honestly, so sincerely and it's not something you've ever seen him do - at least not without some sort of internal struggle.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out and the moment you have barely had the time to share is ruined. (_You just can't help yourself._) It isn't until you've heard the words that you realize it could encompass a whole myriad of things.

"What for?" and you know he knows what it is that you're apologizing for; you can tell.

You spread your arms about the room and somehow, he understands that it means "everything".

"Don't be," he says.

And you wish that it were that simple. (_Mostly you wish that you had the courage to ask him to stay_.)

_"Come with me." He's determined, there's an air about him that you don't recognize, either bravery or resignation, that you wish you could be a part of._

"_What?" You will probably never tell him that this is not your first response that you have to fight off what your instincts are telling you to say to him. (When, where, and take me with you.)_

"_You _don't _know me," you say, because it's the only lie you can live with. _

_Saying no to him, you have found, will always be your easy way out. Because "yes" means admitting, "yes" means acknowledging, "yes" means he has an effect on you, that what he does matters in spite of all your efforts to prove the opposite. When it comes to you and him, the truth is always harder. Always will be.  
_

_"__Don't say "no" just to make me stop talking or make me go away._ _Only say "no" if you _really_ don't want to be with me."_

_You hesitate, close your eyes for about half a second, and though he doesn't seem to notice, the time between his demand and your answer feels like forever and a day._

_"No!" (Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.) Your eyes slide shut as he walks away; it takes all of your will power not to go after him, to drag him back to you and hold on for as long as he will let you. _

_When you're sure he's gone, with your head in your hands you finally say the word you want to, the only one that matters: "Yes."_

In the morning, you awake to a scent that is so uniquely his own on his pillow, novels and notebooks spilling out from his overstuffed shelves are the first thing you see. (And, _you decide, it is not a bad way to wake up at all._)

He's sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading a book, an action that comforts you. You love how he is the only one who seems to possess the ability to balance between surprising you and being completely predictable. (_And the moment is so perfect that you think you could cry._)

You don't notice the second mug sitting on the table until he nudges it toward you. "No cream, three sugars," is all he says.

"Thanks." It doesn't surprise you that he remembers, but it does feel nice to know that he hasn't forgotten the little details that make up who you are.

"No problem." You realize, as you curl into the seat beside him, stealing glances over the rim of your coffee cup, that you are getting far too comfortable here, but a small part of you doesn't want to care. You could get used to this.

"_Don't get used to this." This is Jess' way of greeting you as you walk and read your way out of Chilton, with every intention of catching the bus. It's warm on a Tuesday in the middle of the month and you tell yourself at that moment to never forget March 18, 2003. _

"_Wouldn't dream of it," you're grinning but you don't care; you think he looks good, leaning against the historic and ornate granite of the building behind him. "It would ruin the element of surprise." _

_His arm slips into its favorite place at the nape of your back as he steers you towards his car, parked near a bench and sticking out, conspicuous and odd, like your mother at Emily's dinner parties. You love the contrast. _

"_You're not allowed to park there, you know." But your heart isn't in the scold and you smile through the kiss, unexpected but certainly not unwelcome, as he pulls you towards him. (Perfect.) _

"I'm sorry."

It's late, probably around three in the morning and the only light in the room is coming from the moonlight streaming in through the window, illuminating Jess' features as they contort in confusion. He stretches out on his couch, hands behind his head and his eyes on the ceiling. "What?"

He sounds tired. You almost turn around; almost go back to his room to tell yourself to forget all about this moment and just go back to sleep. But you can't ignore the uneasy feeling that's been gnawing at your gut since you almost kissed him (_actually, technically, if you're honest, it's been long before that_).

"I'm sorry."

He sighs, shifts over so that you can lie next to him. (_It takes you a moment to realize that this is, in fact, what he wants you to do._)

"You seem to be doing that apologizing bit a lot lately."

"And don't you think it's deserved?"

He doesn't answer that, and you take it as your cue to keep going. "Jess, the last time I was here—"

"It's fine, Rory, don't—it's fine. Don't apologize."

"Really?" You find it hard to believe it could be this easy.

"Really. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure, because—"

"Yes."

"Okay. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing." You nod, and fight off the smile that's approaching your lips.

The space between you has grown exponentially smaller since you last spoke. (_Inches, centimeters, millimeters…_)

Your lips are a breath and a kiss away from his when he pulls back. His arm slides down around your shoulders and pulls you closer. (_You're guessing it is simply out of instinct._)

You tell yourself not to get comfortable, that the two of you, like this, should not (_and will not_) become routine. But still somehow, you manage to fall asleep in the comfort of his arms.

_Sometimes, you wonder if you are the one who can take the blame for this, if the reason he seems to try so hard for your approval, and yet completely fail at making a change that sticks._

_Sometimes you want to ask Logan what it is about them, about you, that makes him cheat. Is there something about you that pushes him on and enables him that has made his infidelity such a defined part of his character?_

_You would ask, but you doubt the answer would lead you towards anything truthful._

"_It's nothing," he would say. "_They're_ nothing. "_

_But in spite of how badly he wants it to be true; it's difficult for you to believe that "nothing" is what keeps him from being with you completely, if "nothing" is what keeps the chasm standing upright between you, the two of you on opposite ends. If they're nothing, it shouldn't be so difficult for him to give them up and to just...stop.  
_

_You obviously are not enough for him and you don't know how he can possibly want to spend the rest of his life with someone who isn't enough, who might not ever be enough._

_And, somehow, you would always end up saying "I forgive you," but never meaning it. (And you always end up thinking that this is probably a bad idea.)_

The phone sits on the middle of his coffee table, staring back at you like some mocking, unconquerable creature. You reach for it, but at the last second pull your hand back, as if burned.

He makes some kind of noise in the doorway and you look up at him between the cracks of your fingers. The look on his face is part bemused, part confused.

"Hungry?" he asks and you nod without really thinking about the question he's asked. "Chinese okay?"

"…Sounds fine, I guess."

He nods, leaving you behind in a muddle of your own confusion and bewilderment.

Your feet are cold. You focus more on that and less on the fact that when you burrow your toes in the couch cushions, you can feel the heat of Jess' legs through his pants.

"Did you call him?"

His voice comes as an unexpected surprise; since he came back bearing food almost half hour ago, neither of you have said a word. But, for once, you didn't mind the quiet.

"What?" Confused, you frown around a mouthful of Kung Pao Chicken and chewed bits of spring roll, and try to discern what it is that he could be talking about. One thing comes to mind, but you were so sure he wouldn't want to hear about that. "Why would I—"

"When I left, that was pretty much your cue to call him." He's not looking at you; the TV is on mute and tuned into _The Late Show with Conan O'Brien_, but still has his complete and undivided attention_._

"You should call him," he says.

You know he's right (_he always is_) but you can't help but feel guilty that the only thing pushing you towards picking up that phone is the overwhelming weight of obligation pressing down on your shoulders. It should be more than that, you know, but he deserves a phone call. (_Does he?_)

"It just feels… it feels _so wrong_ to do something like this over the phone."

"When do you plan on going back?"

"I don't know."

"So you think it's better to let him sit and wait around for the day when you decide to show up?"

You wonder when the day arrived when he became so pragmatic. It's not a shade you like on him, especially when it isn't tipped in your favor. You don't answer, not for a while.

"I said I was sorry. I don't know what—"

"You shouldn't be apologizing to _me_—I'm not the guy you left at the altar. He's a dick and he's a bastard but he doesn't deserve…that. To lose you like that. No one does."

His words, candid and true, keep you silent. Make you think.

_You should probably be used to this by now (humiliation, embarrassment) but it never seems to get any easier._

"_I can't believe you would do this." Except that you can. But you keep going back, which is the sad part. (But he honestly believes the promises he makes hold water, which is probably even sadder, you think.)_

"_It's over. I mean that."_

_You scoff, arms crossed around your middle, sending him the warning not to come near you unless he is willing to suffer severe bodily harm. "Boy does that sound familiar."_

_It's a scene you know well: you and Logan, hashing out your personal business in a corner near the bar (or the liquor cabinet—as long as alcohol is involved) with nothing but a crowd of drunken idiots as your audience. _

"_I didn't know that she was going to be here. If I had—"_

"_You wouldn't have brought me here," you finish for him. _

_Actually, that doesn't sound like a bad idea. A night without him, without putting on the display for his friends, trying to play catch-up; it sounds nice. You close your eyes and sigh at the missed opportunity. _

"_I swear to you, it was just the one time—"_

"_Of course it was." You sound bitter, yet resigned to this situation. It's a bit disheartening, to say the least. You should know better._

"_Believe me, Rory; what happened with her doesn't even matter. Believe me." You wish you could. That would be nice, wouldn't it?_

Left. Right. Left. Right.

You toss the phone between your hands, allowing each a moment to appreciate its full weight of responsibility before transferring it back to the other.

It shouldn't be this easy, you think. It shouldn't be so easy for you to put an end to almost three years with a simple phone call. There should be some difficulty involved in this, shouldn't there? It should take more than this, you think. _("You're freaking out about the fact that you're not freaking out.")_

You dial the number before you can change your mind and wait. Three rings and you're ready to hang up, give up, and never try this again.

"Hello?"

Sigh of relief when he answers, but you aren't sure how to continue. "Logan? It's me. It's…Rory."

You roll your eyes at your idiocy—it hasn't been that long; the introduction completely unnecessary.

"Where are you? I thought—"

"That's not important. I don't want to talk about that. I just—I'm so sorry, for what I did. I shouldn't have just left like that. I should have told you."

"I understand what you were saying before- about being pushed through doors. I think I know how you feel now."

"Rory, please, don't—" The desperation in his voice spurs you on to keep talking, to get this over with as soon as possible. (_Rip off the band-aid._)

Logan, unlike Jess, is great at making apologies. It is his art, more than partying until the sun comes up or having the uncanny ability to get any woman to take off her clothes. You guess it's the way he spins those words together, the way he can mean them for the moment and make you think he's promising a lifetime, changing forever.

(_He'd make a great magician, you think_.)

But you're officially done with hearing his apologies, and you can no longer stand to hear him plead to you. "I can't do this, anymore. I'm sorry."

"What do you want me to do? Whatever you want from me, I can do it. Just don't—"

"Let go. That's what I want. We're not right for each other, not in the forever, long-lasting marriage kind of way. Just…let me go."

You hang up when he doesn't say anything more, surprised that when your fingers brush against your cheeks, they come back wet.

You can't sleep. (_The_ _pillow smells good, but you'd so much rather have the real thing._)

His blankets have your legs tangled and you nearly fall on your face as you try to get out of them.

The living room is dark and you stumble on a bump in the carpet as you make your way toward the couch.

His hands find your arm, and you let yourself fall into him. Noses touching, you finally give in to the kiss that you've been wanting to since you came here.

(_You could get used to this._)


	10. Exitlude

Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: not mine. Chapter title belongs to The Killers; story title is Snow Patrol's.

A/N: So, I guess I kinda lied. :) Not intentionally...this just snuck up on me. So, here's the ACTUAL last chapter; an epilogue, of sorts. Enjoy.

_

* * *

Aggressively, we all defend the role we play  
Regrettably, time's come to send you on your way  
We've seen it all: bonfires of trust, flash floods of pain  
It doesn't really matter don't you worry it'll all work out_

_No it doesn't even matter don't you worry what it's all about  
We hope you enjoyed your stay  
It's good to have you with us, even if it's just for the day  
We hope you enjoyed your stay_

_Outside the sun is shining, seems like heaven ain't far away  
It's good to have you with us  
Even if it's just for the day._

* * *

Sometime in the middle of the night, his hand comes to rest on the bare skin at the curve of your hip. It calms you, stops the restless tossing and turning that you've grown so fond of lately.

"Go back to sleep," he orders groggily. His eyes are still closed but he inches you closer, using his arm wrapped around your waist to rest your back against his chest, his nose nuzzling the dip where your throats and shoulder come to meet.

"Sorry."

He tightens the grip around your waist and you turn so that you can face him. The position is awkward, but ultimately worth it, you figure. "What did we say about the apologizing too much especially when it's unnecessary thing?"

"Right. I forgot. Sorr—" You smile through the kiss you press to his lips when he opens his eyes. "Go back to sleep."

"You first."

Morning comes faster than you expected. As always, he is awake before you.

After three gulps of coffee, you take a deep breath and hold it down somewhere in your chest. You're trying to go for casual, aloof, but you have never really been able to pull that off successfully. (_"You're an open book," _he said once.) "So, uh, can I— do you... need your car today for anything important?"

"No." He's curious, you can tell, but he won't bite unless you feed him the line.

"Okay. Well…good."

"I'm guessing you…need to borrow it?"

"That would be nice. Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Did you want me to say 'no'?"

"No, _'okay'_ is fine. You're not—you're not curious about where I'm going?"

He shrugs. "You'll tell me eventually."

You can't help but smile at that. "Yeah."

_"I'm going to need a list." This is how_ _Andréa greets you at your next scheduled meeting— sans Logan, of course. ("Things go smoother that way," she assured you.)_

_"A list?"_

_"Yes. A list," she repeats impatiently. Andréa is not the kind of person to waste time on simple things like explanations. "Of potential guests."_

"_Potential guests?"_

"_You know," Andrea mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose, "of people you want to invite. To the rehearsal dinner. And if that goes well, then to the wedding. Think of it as a dry run."_

_You know she's aggravated with having to repeat herself; time is money and she doesn't have the kind of time to go over and repeat simple instructions. You try to make this whole thing easier for her. "I don't, uh…" It takes you all of thirty seconds to write down the names of the people who will actually show up. Who aren't still (justifiably) pissed by the way you've treated them. _

_Andréa frowns at the piece of ripped up napkin you thrust in her direction. "Is that it?"_

"_That's it."_

This time, when you see the sign you keep on going— no stopping to reacquaint yourself with its etchings, or the curve of the dirt road. This time when you pull into the driveway that leads up to your home, you don't feel the need to justify anything. You feel at peace.

(_And maybe just a little nervous._)

You pause on the steps to press your shaking hand over your chest in a vain attempt to calm your pounding heart. You're thankful, that at least for today, Babette hasn't decided to play I Spy from her front porch.

Your raise your hands to knock on the door, but you're saved from doing so when it opens. Shock freezes you when you find yourself staring at your mother. Your oddly round mother.

"You—you're—"

You're fumbling, trying to figure out why it's so hard for you to say this word.

"Huge? I know." She's falling back on her jovial humor, but you can tell she is just as surprised to see you as you are by her…condition.

Pregnant. You want to be angry, want to yell at her for keeping this from you but you realize just as soon as you open your mouth that you don't have the right. You don't get to shut her out and expect her to still try to connect to you, keep you informed.

Your anger dies with a meek little thud and you close your mouth.

"So, are you still…in Philadelphia? With Jess?"

"Yeah," you say. You don't ask how she knows, you were kind of depending on Luke's slight tendency to blab, your cowardice keeping you from bridging the gap yourself.

You stare at the floor before bringing your gaze to your mother's face. In spite of everything, she still seems happy to see you.

You think you might cry.

"Mom, I—" You don't know which words are the right ones to say, although it doesn't really matter since you've never really been able to communicate while crying hysterically. You hope she's still fluent in translating the meaning behind tight embraces.

"I know."

(She is.)

* * *

fin.


End file.
